The Serial Garden: The Complete Armitage Family Stories (38 page)

Mrs. Holdernesse was small and old, with white hair done in a knob on top, small skinny hands, and eyes like triangular chips of blue flint in her pale face. Her hands were amazingly skillful—with one she kept pulling out lumps of wool from the basket, while with the other she twirled and fed it into a quivering strand, which was drawn on to the shoulder of the spinning-wheel, and she kept that spinning round by pedaling with her right foot. And, when the basket of loose tufts was empty, she had a ball, big as her two fists, of strong white crinkly wool, which would be either knitted into sweaters or woven into rugs. Harriet had one of the sweaters. It had been dyed a bright golden yellow with lichen scraped off trees, and was too warm to be worn except in the very coldest weather.

"Sheep know how to keep warm,” said Mrs. Holdernesse. “You never see a sheep shivering."

While she was spinning or weaving she told Harriet all kinds of interesting facts: how the whole of this country was once deep forest, tall oaks which were all cut down to build ships; and how the inhabitants of Easter Island had done the same thing until there were no trees left on their island, so they could never sail away again ... how the Romans had brought walnut trees and their own gods to Ancient Britain.... Harriet listened and learned how to twirl the cluster of wool into a filament, not too thick, not too thin or it would break; if it did break Mrs. Holdernesse, with her bony nimble fingers, could twist the two strands together without the least difficulty, but Harriet found it very much harder, and would rub and twist until the strands grew grubby before she made a satisfactory join.

One day Harriet arrived with a much larger basketful than usual. The wool was particularly filthy and matted; some of it was almost solid with dirt.

"While you are having your lesson I shall put this lot to soak in a bath of foxglove juice,” Mrs. Holdernesse decided. “That will dissolve the mud and dirt. It almost feels as if there is something solid in there, among the wool. Where in the world did you find all this?"

"There's an old shepherd's hut on top of Coldharbour Mount. It blew down in last week's storm and left quite a deep pit underneath. I found all this lot in there. The place hadn't been used for years."

"Coldharbour Mount? Yes ... there used to be a lot of stories about that place; the Roman road from the sea runs over the top, so it has been used ever since then, and probably for centuries before that—by smugglers and highwaymen and soldiers on their way to and from wars,” remarked Mrs. Holdernesse, settling down again on her spinning-stool and working her wheel into motion. “Mind that strand, Harriet, it is getting a trifle too thick, fine it down a little. Yes, that is better."

"Tell me some of the stories about Coldharbour Mount."

"There used to be a big oak tree where two tracks met."

"Yes,” said Harriet. “It is still there. Not far from the ruined hut."

"It was called the ‘copt tree.’”

"What does ‘copt’ mean?"

"It was an Arabic word, relating to an early religious sect. As recently as a hundred years ago it was thought to be unlucky to pass that tree without leaving an offering."

"What sort of offering?"

"Oh, anything would be acceptable—a piece of bread, sugar-lump, even a hair off your head. Children who passed that way were thought to be in need of special protection."

"What kind of protection?"

"They had to wear a magic charm on a neck cord."

"What kind of magic charm?"

"Your lump of amber would do,” Mrs. Holdernesse said smiling. Harriet wore a lump of amber on a silver chain; she had had it last year for a present when her birthday fell during a family trip to Lyme Regis. “Amber is often used as a charm against witchcraft and the attacks of demons."

"I take it off at night,” said Harriet thoughtfully. “Maybe I should keep it on."

"Not so many demons about nowadays. Perhaps."

"Do you think there are evil spirits on Coldharbour Mount?"

"There might be a tree goddess called Black Annis,” Mrs. Holdernesse said. “—There, that's the end of your wool; shall we go and see how the foxglove bath is working?"

"Who was Black Annis? What did she do?"

"She was a cousin of the Egyptian goddess Sekhet, a lion lady. As Bast, the cat goddess, she was kind and friendly; as Sekhet she was ferocious and demanding. The Romans probably brought her over. There would have been some of her worshippers in the Roman army. Ah,” said Mrs. Holdernesse, stirring the muddy wool soup in her copper bath, “here is something quite solid in the middle of the brew; I shall fish it out with the laundry tongs."

She did so, flicking aside trailing strands of wet leaves and bracken and grass.

"Why, it's a mask!” exclaimed Harriet.

"So it is. A cat mask. This must certainly be Black Annis. Or one of her descendants."

"It's very shiny. Do you think it is silver?"

"Yes, I do. Very thin. Very old. You have found something quite valuable, Harriet!"

When the mask was dried, and rubbed with a silver-cloth, it shone brilliantly.

"How old do you think it is?"

"Many centuries,” Mrs. Holdernesse said, looking calmly down at the calm cat face. “It probably came from the north African coast. It would have been used for religious ceremonies—the priest or priestess would wear it."

"Oh, do put it on, Mrs. Holdernesse! Let me see what you look like in it!"

"Thank you, no. Not on any account. And I advise you not to do so, Harriet."

"Why?” asked Harriet, though she thought she had an idea. There was something about the cat mask which attracted and yet scared and chilled her—she was eager to put it on; she wanted to see what the world would look like, seeing through those eye-slots—and yet she had a shivery feeling that, once she had put the mask on, she might not be able to take it off....

"That mask has seen a lot of history.” Mrs. Holdernesse laid the mask on the window-seat leaning against a green cushion. The eye slots, with green behind them, seemed to be watching like cold cat's eyes.

"Do you know any of its history?” Harriet asked, twirling away at her strand of wool.

"I know that in ancient Egypt priest and priestesses wore masks like this for temple ceremonies. Somehow the mask must have made its way to Britain. And I have an idea about its more recent history—well, fairly recent—” Without pausing in her spinning, Mrs. Holdernesse picked up a new lump of wool, drew it out into a thread, and joined it to another which had nearly come to an end. She went on: “About two hundred years ago there was a highwayman in these parts—or rather a highwaywoman. It was said of her that she wore a cat mask so the people she robbed would never be able to recognize her. Coldharbour Mount was one of her favourite haunts."

"My goodness! This must have been the mask that she used. What was her name?"

"She had various nicknames—Kitty Sickle-claws, and Kitty Snickersnee, and Kitty Sekateur because she had a razor-sharp dagger and used to stab her victims, so that very few of them survived. One can see,” said Mrs. Holdernesse, “a connection with the goddess Sekhet."

"What happened to her?"

"She had a child—little Jemmy. She used to leave him with a woman who lived in West Burwood, over the hill. But the Bow Street men found out about him. And so when Kitty held up a coach on Coldharbour Mount a voice from inside called ‘Drop your weapon or little Jemmy gets a dose of lead down his gullet!’ And little Jemmy called out, ‘Mammy! Mammy!’”

"So what happened?"

"She dropped her weapon and the Bow Street men arrested her."

"Did she go to prison?"

"No, they hanged her right there and then, from the big oak tree. There was quite a commotion about that, questions asked in Parliament, why hadn't she a proper trial. But the Bow Street men said she was resisting arrest. And she had killed quite a few innocent travellers, so the whole thing blew over. Only there was trouble about the mask."

"The mask. Why?"

"They couldn't get it off her. So she was buried in it. There is a story—but no more than a piece of local legend—that a hundred years later somebody dug her up—her skeleton—and took the mask off the skull. Whether that is a true tale I don't know...."

"What became of little Jemmy?"

"There were questions asked in Parliament about him, too. He certainly died. It is thought that he was accidentally shot in the struggle when Kitty was taken. In any case, who'd want to bring up a highwaywoman's child?"

"It's a sad story,” said Harriet. “What do you think I should do with the mask?"

"You could give it to the museum in West Burwood."

"Y-e-s—I suppose I could."

"Or,” said Mrs. Holdernesse, spinning away, “you could drop it in the dew pond on Coldharbour Mount. Myself, I'd advise that."

"I would
so like
to try it on."

"It wants you to do that."

"Why?"

"That is what it was made for. And it has been dead—empty—inactive—for a long time now. Once it must have been used every day—it was important and powerful—"

"It still feels powerful,” said Harriet, picking up the mask. It was as thin and light as a piece of tinfoil, it had a mellow shine in the light from the window, it looked mild and harmless as a Christmas decoration. There were two slots on each side, behind the cheek pieces.

"I suppose they would have ribbons or strings through those holes, to fasten it on someone's head,” said Harriet. She picked up a discarded length of wool and threaded it through one of the holes. Then she found a second piece and threaded that.

"If I were you,” said Mrs. Holdernesse, “I'd put the mask into this bag and forget about it."

From a cupboard she took a hand-woven bag, fastened at the mouth by drawstrings. She passed it to Harriet. Very reluctantly Harriet slid the mask into the bag and pulled the cords to gather the neck together. Then she thought about the mask in the bag, cut off from daylight, as it had been for so long in that sodden lump of greasy sheeps’ wool.

It was a sad, suffocating, creepy feeling. The mask wanted, badly, to be back in daylight. She knew it did.

"I think it is time you went home, Harriet,” said Mrs. Holdernesse, looking at Harriet very straightly. “And I think it would be a good thing if you left the mask in this house."

"Oh, no. I want to show it to Mark."

Harriet picked up the bag with the mask in it.

"It would be much better if you left it here,” said Mrs. Holdernesse.

For a mad moment Harriet wondered if Mrs. Holdernesse wanted to wear the mask herself. But no, that was impossible. She had said so. What did she want to do with it? Bury it in her garden? Or would she carry it up to the top of Coldharbour Mount and drop it in the dew pond?

"Harriet,” said Mrs. Holdernesse, “
whatever
you do, don't put on that mask!"

"Thank you for the lovely spinning lesson, Mrs. Holdernesse,” Harriet said politely. “And I'll see you on Wednesday week."

She walked out of Mrs. Holdernesse's house, carrying the woven bag.

An early, foggy dusk had fallen. There was going to be a sharp frost. Harriet thought about the highway robber, Kitty Sickle-claws, wearing a black cloak, riding a black horse, going softly up the deep chalk lane that led through woods up to the top of Coldharbour Mount. Her silver mask, under the black hood of her cloak, would gleam faintly in the misty light. Did she ever take the mask off? Or was little Jemmy accustomed to a silver, cat-faced mother?

Mark was at home, in the work-room he shared with Harriet, solving something on his computer.

"Look what I found,” said Harriet. She undid the strings of the bag and pulled out the mask, which she laid on Mark's work table.

Two things happened. Mark's computer went wild, throwing jags and flashes all over the screen. And Walrus, the elderly cat, who was sitting by the fire, let out a frightful hiss and catapulted out of the window, which, luckily, was open.

"Blimey!” said Mark. “What a nasty thing! Wherever did you get it?"

Harriet told him its story. Mark said,

"Mrs. Holdernesse is a sensible old bird. If I were you, I'd take her advice. Look at how poor old Walrus acted."

"Well—I'll see how I feel about it tomorrow."

"I am sure Dad would say get rid of it."

The Armitage parents were spending the evening at a London theatre.

Harriet said, “I would
so
like to put it on. Just for a moment, to see how it feels."

"You'd be crazy."

"I suppose so,” said Harriet halfheartedly.

They had supper while the mask watched them from the kitchen dresser. Harriet had leaned it against a bowl of tomatoes. Its eyes were red.

Mark tried to persuade Walrus to come into the house, but he wouldn't be persuaded, despite the fact that it was growing colder and colder.

"Tell you what,” said Mark. “How about putting the mask into Father's safe for the night. It's obviously very valuable. And just in case you had a sudden mad impulse to put it on—you know you never can remember the combination number. And there's nothing in the safe that can come to harm—only Ma's diamond earrings."

"She probably wore them to London."

Harriet was not overenthusiastic about Mark's plan, but she finally allowed him to put the mask back in its bag, and the bag in the safe, which was in Mr. Armitage's study. Then Mark and Harriet locked up the house and went to bed.

Harriet had great trouble getting to sleep. She lay thrashing about her bed, longing for the mask. Her head, and particularly her face, felt hot as fire. She imagined how cool the silver shell would feel against her blazing cheeks.

At last she fell into a heavy, feverish slumber. And she began to dream. She dreamed that they were all waiting for her. Who? They were lined up on both sides of the temple—rows and rows of them, all in white, with pleated head-dresses. They were holding torches that poured smoke and flame and gave off a hot, resinous smell.

"I shall be late!” Harriet said. “I shall be late!"

She hurried out of bed, threw on clothes, pattered downstairs...

She went into Mr. Armitage's study, easily dialed the correct combination, opened the safe, took out the hand-woven bag. Then she slipped the mask from the bag and put it on, tying the two strands of wool in a knot behind her head. Without pausing for a moment she unlocked the front door, went out, crossed the garden, and took the lane that led up to Coldharbour Mount.